Fine div I ken what ails yon puddock, Janet,
That aince would hae her neb set up sae hie;
There's them that disna' seem to understan' it,
I'se warrant ye it's plain eneuch to me!

Maybe ye'll mind her man—a fine wee cratur,
Owre blate to speak (puir thing, he didna' daur);
What gar'd him fecht was jist his douce-like natur';
Gairmans is bad, but Janet's tongue was waur.

But noo he's hame again, ye wadna ken her,
He isna' feared to contradic' her flat;
He smokes a' day, comes late to get his denner,
(I mind the time she'd sort him weel for that!)

What's gar'd her turn an' tak' a road divairgint?
Ye think she's wae[4] because he wants a limb?
Ach! haud yer tongue, ye fule—the man's a sairgint,
An' there's nae argy-bargyin' wi' him!

[4] Sad.